rebel_angel's blog

Its continuously buffering..so if anyone knows how to fix that please tell me!

She's got angel wings spiraling
out from her shoulder blades,
inked on by a woman who's eyes
are etched with Kohl and fingers
dangling with $10 "diamonds".

My wings, she told me,
my wings let me fly,
I didn't believe her.
With peppermint lips she
smacked out the words,
"Angels have wings and so do I!".
I could see that.

She stood there, eyes, sad.
She wanted to believe what she
had just said.
But the woman with the $10 "diamonds"
and eyes etched with Kohl told her
"Honey, fairy tales are over."

And so the dew was passionately kissed
by the moon,
and woke up with her sweet tears
rolling down their blades.
And when the sun burned,
it burned a thousand prisms
of peacock plumes into the wake
of its crystal chariot.

And so the magician weaved
the threads of his tapestry
across the rippled waves of sundown.
And the virgin drops of faith and virtue
trickled across the sky
spotting fairie dust with
each light particle it shone.

Belief in the sunflower,
who contains one universe,
in each ebony seed.

I finally found some items to make some
snazzy podcasts and the blasted thing doesn't work.
woe? utterly.

RA

She is the snowflake in mid-summer,
that perches atop a stem of a broken dandelion.
Producing for a second, an image
of its spiral of growth from spring until
present.
Crescents of yellow and powder flutter,
seeds of pilgrims that waft off of the
bud.
Holograms of tiny fairies with wings detach
in the wind to sow words of spring and summer.
Yet melts the snowflake,
and, memories?
Yes melts, what you never saw, on a sweet summer night.

And until the rain tells you its secret to keeping dry,
you will never know.

I can feel the line breaks when you speak.
That pause, just enough to catch up with yourself.
Maybe you're the only one who stops,
and thinks about what you are going to say.
He's less than rugged, I told my friends.
But no more than he should be.

Its green today,
soft ripples of green whip
tufts of grass and whistle in the hair.
His hair whispers too.
The wind plays with it just enough
to throw it off its usual flat course.
His eyes aren't alive today--
They cast a shadow across the foliage,
daring it to whisper once again.

I'll never do it again, he told me.
He gave me my pen,
and I scrape the words away as he walks off.

People always ask me,
"So how's life going for you?"
I tell them its getting there.
I don't always mention that
I'm waiting.
Waiting for it to start, waiting for somebody?
Who knows.
I tell them it'll get better,
that they'll see, I'll see,
soon I'll stop old habits
and start believing.
I tell them, by summer, life
should be good.
Oh just next year, you wait,
it'll be good.
And the only thing I do is sit,
and wait.
Wait for it to start.
But I guess it won't start,
by waiting.
I tell myself,
Motivation!
That's the key.
But I still sit and wait,
for something thats
going to outrun a miracle.

She spoke with sunshine on her lips.
Just off to the big city,
"pursue the actors life"
she claimed.
From one small town to the next.
Just another city on the map.
With scraps of talent she
pulls pieces of plays together
with gestures and meaningful actions.
Betrayed by fellow performers and
their "so-called ways of livin'".
City life! She said.
Thats the path I'll walk,
the trip I'll take.
The fame that'll grow from me
my fame that'll show the world
small towns don't mean a thing.
She going to leave.
I never really knew her,
only as a semi-acquaintance..don't you know?
She's off Sunday. Off for good.
Going down south to show them.
What will she ever show them?
Just another one they'll say,
just another lonely act
trying to live up to history.
Trying to make amends for a
past crisis.
Only I never really knew her.
Only slightly, and even then,
she was never going to move on.

Husband,
presses his tie against his chest,
smoothing a series of invisible wrinkles.
Wife sets out dinner,
roasting the chicken and broiling
the broccoli.
Fetching cans of carrots from
the fridge.
The House is vacuumed.
The Table is set.
The Guests are on their way.
Talking small talk,
speaking small words,
into opposite small minds.
Wife smiles small smiles and sips
her water courteously.
Husband speaks of business and
men things, his facade a
display of serene testosterone.
Wife passes a dish and stops,
small hands shake while cold
water runs off the table and on
Husband's lap.
Apology after apology flow from her
wavering voice while his eyes burn
and his teeth grating grills.
Dinner follows.
Guests go.
Husband beats Wife. Her sweet
tears marked with fear and pain.
Shes sorry she couldn't keep that
smooth smile,
sorry she could only shake at his stare.
Face is broken and bruised,
Children are asleep without
knowing.
Wife prays to God,

OYECOMOVA!

She wept pure tears
on white homespun
silk dresses.
Slowly she stripped off
her dainty cream gloves.
She ran and skipped
over to her corner
of the garden.
She buried those gloves,
buried those cream gloves
deep in the fertile soil.
Through every breath of
her existence she had
worn those gloves.
He had stripped her.
Her image of man was
buried with those gloves,

She is of soiled lapels, from white shirts.
Starched, pleated, navy skirts,
and tattered gray socks.
The buckles are broken on her
Mary Jane's, the straps
worn thin.
Its standard issue.

Her parents scream foul words
and through the thing plywood
walls she can hear the pair.
She cries as she runs,
runs up the stairs and under her covers
to muffle the voices as they are

Clips from my journal in the Dominican Republic

In our guagua, I had my
face glued to the glass,
houses, people, palms, cows,
donkeys, broken signs
all flashed past my face.
It was what I saw in movies,
read in magazines of developing countries.
The wretched fences hanging from rusted barbed wire,
animals grazing carelessly along the roadside,
it all had an untamed beauty.

Sadly I feel at times
that moments that I should feel something
I just don't.
At times that I am literally nothing
the only thing I can do
is smile.
And [insert] emotion here,

to please the crowd.

One more note, just one more for I would give
Anything, just for one more note.

My iced fingers slide over the
Metal strings,
Delicate they feel, how strange?
My elbow should be weak,
My wrists should crack like
Breaking ice,
But fire flies through my blood,
Steam emanating from my skin.
Forbidden thoughts lead to
Forbidden songs,
But last stands can
Do anything.

I feel like I can hear their beat.
Our beat.
A Hundred Hearts,
Thumping,
Pumping weak blood into
Dying hearts.
Keeping time with the sway of
The train car.
Never losing that beat.
I can feel it,
That rhythm mounting with
Speed.
Death chilled the car,
One beat at a time.
Slowly it silenced to
Less than a hum.
Each beat falling out of
Tune,
Faltering each step like